


We Had It, Almost

by olippe



Series: In Between [2]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: CALL HIM RIGHT NOW PAUL, Developing Relationship, Drama, Drama & Romance, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Musicians, Romance, Romantic Friendship, artie is sad, but still stupid, doh-d-doh-d-doh-d-doh, messed up the timeline lol, nope they're totally sad, not sorry, now paul wants a little cheering-up too, ok they're kinda happy now, our favourite stupid pair, tom get your plane right on time, y'all have one job and that is to cheer up our little arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25219216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: After Wednesday morning where Art stayed behind, regretting it.Little stories that took place between "Long Way Around" and "A Lost Home".
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: In Between [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808707
Comments: 14
Kudos: 14





	1. Wildfire

**Author's Note:**

> Set after [Long Way Around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664971/chapters/54201091) and [A Lost Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664971/chapters/54201091).
> 
> The title is based on Novo Amor's "Repeat Until Death". ( ͡°╭͜ʖ╮͡° )  
> They are stupid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art decided to see Paul off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, absolutely nothing happened here, just Art thinking how stupid they're being and he, once again, was right.
> 
> The title's from Seafret's song (●´∀｀●)

Paul took a taxi to the airport.

A guitar, a suitcase, a coat; there’s not much else he needed. Art thought, there’d come a time when Paul Simon would realise that he’s supposed to also bring Art along because Art was also his basic necessity. Sure, he'd offered. But Art knew that it wasn't really an invitation. That was just Paul, spitting out words in the spur of the moment. No, Art knew him too well to fall for that. If he'd said yes, Paul would soon realise that he didn't mean the invitation, regret it, become upset about it, and become upset at Art because he thought Art should've known that he didn't mean it. So Art humour his insanity; for now. He's gonna be the bigger person and give Paul the space that he required to eventually realise that he, in fact, needed Art. The biggest problem with that was, Paul wasn’t going to realise that _now,_ and _now_ was when Paul’s taking off to England. There’s no do-over in this. He’s going to leave, and Art’s going to stay, and all he could do was to wish for the time of revelation to come soon.

Art was thinking all these on one of the uncomfortable airport benches, hidden behind a pillar and a newspaper, throwing secretive glances at the gate from time to time. He’d been there for hours because he didn’t know when Paul would come and he didn’t want to ask Paul and he couldn’t just say that he wanted to see Paul off, and other issues that’s rooted from the profound silliness that was their questionable relationship. 

The fact was, it’s not Art who made this whole thing questionable. He’s all well and ready to be with Paul; there’s no one else in his mind—not for a long time now. But Paul still thought of girls. Or, girl. That's also why Art decided to stay. At least for a while, until Paul could make up his mind. And it’s really silly because there’s no way that Paul Simon could love anyone more than he did Art Garfunkel, and there’s no way he’d ever be able to find anyone who loved him more than Art Garfunkel did him. "When we've figured out," he said, that night. Art was being polite with the 'we'—didn't Paul know that? It's _him_ who should figure things out. Art's really always ahead of Paul in this feelings stuff. 

But if Art could understand the most complicated of math, he surely could understand how humans usually work. If not, at least he knew Paul. Paul just needed to give this a try, and all Art had to do was to wait for him to realise that alternatives would never compare to the original. And he—Art—was the fucking origin of all love that’s ever fallen and would ever fall on Paul.

And with that in mind, he probably shouldn't even be in the airport right now. They didn't talk about this. What's he doing anyway—looking for a fraction of seconds to see Paul before he's gone? It's not a part of the deal. They're supposed to part and give space for the said 'figuring things out' to happen. But Art couldn't help it, could he? No, he's a flat-faced dork who just couldn't resist temptations. He should've known. Didn't he kiss Paul on bathroom floor because of that lack of self-control? He needed help to discipline his mind, perhaps. He should probably stop being stupid. But that's not gonna happen, was it?

Art closed his eyes and sighed. When did this happen? When did this begin? _How_ did it happen? Paul— _really?_ Why Paul? He accumulated all the questions he couldn't answer, and came up with a conclusion to soothe the itching: That they're already burning anyway. It got worse, he thought. It was simply sad and devastating when he's the only one feeling it, but now that Paul _might_ feel it too, it became worse. The faint hope that's dangling beyond this suffocating smoke was taunting, teasing, disappearing and reappearing like fever at the most inconvenient times. It was only a spark. Paul evoked a wildfire.

He checked on his watch. If Paul’s gonna make the flight at all, he’s supposed to be here in 10 minutes at the latest. That’s so typical Paul. He did everything right except for the one thing he’s supposed to do right. Did he sleep through the morning? Did he change his mind? Did he forget? Did anything go wrong? Or did it go right?

Art became agitated. He folded the newspaper and flung it at his seat as he stood up. Then he did what Paul called ‘The Garfunkel pose’, in which he pressed his fists against his waist, scowled, craned his head forward, and darted his eyes cluelessly that often resulted in nothing due to his lack of focus, owing to his natural overflowing anxiousness. Art thought he could even hear Paul laughing at him for doing exactly that, and feeling exactly that. He struggled to put down his fists, then focused on one strip of path at a time.

The hair behind his neck stood up, and Art straightened his back. He was always hunching, he thought about himself to himself in attempt to calm down the sinking feeling in his stomach. His mother always said that it’s not good for his posture, but it’s not like Art did it voluntarily. He was a shy kid, and when he couldn’t afford being shy anymore, the reason was a head shorter than him. Nowadays, he’s convinced that even his body was morphing itself to accommodate his interactions with Paul. Probably, one of these days, he’d grow shorter. Or rather, it would be so much better if Paul would just grow taller— _he_ would be happy about it.

And as these thoughts were racing through his mind, Art spotted the racing figure of the short man, rushing with a little suitcase gripped tightly in his hand, a guitar case in the other, and his little body was wrapped in his familiar black coat. Art opened his mouth to call him, but moment seemed to be suspended in time. The busy scene slowed down, and Paul, half floating, slipped through the maze of people, and, finally, through the security.

Then the moment resumed and Art’s lips parted, his tongue rolled the name he’d been thinking of, and desperation in his body amplified it.

But Paul had gone.


	2. Loin d'ici

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sandy, I'm not happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title's from Cœur de Pirate's song (●´∀｀●)

“Sandy, I’m not happy.”

“Arthur, we’ve given you _all_ of our money, you’re not getting more.”

“Sa-a-andy…”

The low voice of his former roommate rang through the receiver. Art pouted and huffed. Sandy gave good responses to his complains, but he never skipped any chance to draw unhappy whining out of Art. That’s upsetting, but in a way, that’s really helpful. Art could get too wrapped up in negative thoughts, and Sandy making fun of him usually got him out of it.

So Art waited until Sandy finished laughing at him. The laughter trailed for several more seconds until he finally asked, “Alright, what now?”

Art fiddled with the phone cable. He wasn’t really sure what to say, but he sure wanted to say something to Sandy. What _could_ he say? He couldn’t just say that his boyhood crush just left him. Or… he could? At the risk of sounding like a drama queen? Is drama queen right, though? Drama king. That doesn’t sound right. “Arthur?” Sandy nudged.

“Hold on, give me a minute.” Art took a deep breath and closed his eyes, selecting his words carefully. It’s just a relationship problem. He didn’t even have to say any more than that. “Okay, so, my friend left me.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not quite.”

“You wish?”

“All the damn time.”

When he said that, Art pulled on the twirly cable, angrily, because he didn’t know any other outlet to channel how pissed he was that Paul simply _couldn’t_ be his girlfriend. Art made a tiny grunting noise, then continued with his chronicle. “Let’s say we got together sometimes ago,” he began, “and it’s been going well until about a couple of weeks ago when the idea of going abroad was eventually finalised. I mean, the going-abroad thing was kinda abrupt, and I wasn’t really involved in the discussion. I mean, it’s not my decision to make, I know, but… I don’t know, Sandy… It makes sense that I’m upset about this, right? I’ve been in love with this person for a very long time…”

Oh. So it’s Paul. So they got together, huh? Good for them.

“… and something finally happened and… I don’t know. I just thought when it finally happened, it’s gonna, you know, keep happening. I mean, it’s something _really big_ that we got together, given our, uh, history, and everything. But then it stopped, and now there’s thousands of miles distance between us, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I went to the airport the other day because I wanted to say goodbye and I just… didn’t.”

Sandy didn’t reply, but Art could somehow tell that he’s nodding. Sometimes he thought that he didn’t really have to say things to Sandy, he’d just know it. Pretty much like Paul. But without the whole being-in-love thing. But could Sandy understand this one? He’d understood nearly all of Art’s antics, but this one? He heard him saying, “Maybe you didn’t have to say goodbye. It’s not permanent, right?”

“I don’t know,” Art replied, knowing that he really didn’t. There’s a girl involved in this whole scenario, and even if Paul’s not thinking about throwing everything away for this one girl, he definitely felt like home in England, from what he said about it. What if it _was_ permanent? What if the ‘figuring things out’ ended up in Paul realising that England and she-whatever were what he wanted? That could mean that this separation was permanent. “It could be.”

“So, you’re broken-hearted, then?”

Not quite. But, wait. That’s true. That’s weird. Paul reciprocated his feelings, so it didn’t make sense that Art’s broken-hearted right now. Was it a heart-break? God, it was. “Yes, and that’s weird. Because, you know… Things transpired.”

Sandy sighed softly, like he usually did when he’s really trying to preserve his patience in the face of Art’s rambling. It’s not _rambling,_ it’s… um, confiding. Sandy finally spoke, with a slow pace to make sure that Art’s listening. “Arthur, remember what Jerry said.”

“Computer is the future.”

“Not your brother Jerry.”

“Oh. The Columbia Jerry. Uh… Just because you kissed, doesn’t mean you’re married?”

“Attaboy. You might be just upset because he knows how you feel, and just humoured you with a kiss. I mean, that’s very mean of me to assume that anyone’s doing that to you, but that’s possible, right? Or, you _feel_ that he’s doing that to you by leaving, while he didn’t really mean that but you’re bummed because of your pretty shitty assumption anyway. Let’s face it, Arthur, you’re not the king of positivity.”

Art leaned back to the wall, sighing. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I guess I was just elated because things went from nothing to really a lot of something, then it collapsed to medium… Wait.” His fingers tightened around the cable. Art staggered, “Did you say ‘he’?”

Oh. Sandy didn’t mean that. He didn’t mean to reveal that he knew about that. Sometimes it’s difficult, though, to not say it out loud. Especially not when Art’s being all obvious about who he’s talking about. And the funny thing was, he’s probably not even aware that he’s being obvious. But Sandy knew that when Art butchered a name, a pronoun, and just absolutely anything that would signify that he’s talking about Paul, he’s talking about Paul.

But Art’s trying not to let anyone know, and Sandy’s not the kind of person who’d just dismiss that. So Sandy forced a laughter. “Oh, you caught on. Good. Yes, I did, because you’re being a bitch. Come on, Arthur. You’ve been in love with this person for years, didn’t you say that? If they realised their feelings _just now,_ you can’t expect them to reach the same intensity just like that. You’ve accumulated yours for years, give them time.”

Art nodded. Then, realising that there’s no way Sandy could’ve seen that, he quickly said, “You’re right.”

“You just nodded, didn’t you?”

“Saandyy…”

His next laughter came more naturally. It’s not easy to laugh at Art’s feelings, but at Art, definitely. “Alright, just be patient. You said it yourself—something happened. At least it’s begun, right? So from here on, little things might keep on happening, and one day it might finally catch up with your expectation. Who knows? Things like this sometimes just snowball, especially when you’ve known each other for so long, so it might not take that long a time for it to get gigantic.”

“I’d like that very much,” Art sighed again. He’s calming down now. He let go of the cable around his finger, and placed his hand on his thigh. “I suppose I shouldn’t have surmised that people would just have my intensity of feelings without me ever tending to it. You’re right, I have unreasonable expectations.”

“I didn’t say that. I said you’re a bitch.”

“Fuck you, Sandy.”

The phone call ended with Sandy’s laughter and him excusing himself to tend to his task of the day. Art said goodbye and, as he’d predicted, felt better. Talking to Sandy always did that. It put him at ease, at least. Probably he should move closer to Cambridge. Or make more visits. Maybe he should, tomorrow. Or anytime soon. Tomorrow.

Art returned to his bedroom and found his bed was littered with his daily mail. His mother’s signature custard yellow envelope, that’s one. A couple of postcards. Art flipped them—one was from Jules, who’s off on a vacation and, if he recalled correctly, had already returned; one was nameless.

Art’s stomach churned. It was postmarked London, signifying the day of his departure. On it, was:

_I thought I heard you._


	3. Give Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-distance call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, it's me again ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> i've been gone for a few days ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> The chapter title's from Low Roar's Give Up ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ  
> I'm still on the lookout for ff of them during their busking period. If you know one, I want two ⚆ _ ⚆

Paul didn’t say anything.

Several letters were exchanged following that odd postcard. Paul played in little pubs. Someone supported him like crazy, and other people were kind and welcoming. He brought them doughnuts and they taught him songs to play. That girl he met was still there. He wrote more songs. He made a record with them; there’s a photograph of him and that girl he mentioned of—Art could never record her name in his brain—in the cover of that album. He was content with everything. He didn’t have much, but he was happy. What he got paid with, he could live off. He was happy. He was really, really happy.

Art wanted to reply with equal optimism, but he knew that he’s dying in his bedroom, in the little jobs he took and the books and the library and the classrooms and the coffee shops and the music stores he stopped by without Paul by his side. Everywhere he looked, he noticed, very sorely, that Paul was nowhere near. How could he write anything joyous? How could Paul be so happy without him?

How could Paul not say whether that postcard was from him?

Art could've asked. But Art wouldn't. That's just what he did—he didn't ask things he wanted to know the answers of. Was he _that_ fond of being miserable? But what was he expecting anyway—that Paul would just let go of what seemed to be his real first love and go home and be with Art, was that it?

Yes, that was it.

Except it couldn't be. Art's trying to understand that. So probably not knowing was better. If he knew that Paul had sent him that postcard—with all its illusion that Paul could, somehow, _sense_ him because that's what (Art resented himself for being insufferably mawkish in thinking this) soulmates do—he'd hope. And if he knew that Paul _didn't_ send him that postcard, he'd be disappointed and discouraged. And it would make his future attempts at communicating with Paul incredibly awkward. He didn't want that. He didn't want to lose Paul. It didn't matter whether Paul had any real feelings for him or not. He had Paul. As a friend, or whatever; but he had Paul. That's what mattered. And it wasn't all that bad.

***

It wasn’t until the beginning of summer when Paul finally collected enough money to spare for a long-distance call. Art had to hold back his sobbing when he sat down on the chair with his hands trembling like an autumn leaf—after months, it’s finally here again; that voice; Paul’s voice. Crying would be such a waste, so Art forced himself to be strong and only let out a piteous choke when he began his, “This is Art.”

“Artie, you should come.”

“To England?”

“Yeah. I’ll get us a place while you’re here. It’s gonna be great. We can sing, you can learn to play more guitar, and everything...”

That was rushed. Paul didn’t have enough money to spare for idle chit-chat, so Art understood why he jumped straight to the question of the day. And Art knew he didn’t have time to be indecisive, or to sulk. Or to ask question _he_ wanted to pose—like that postcard question—no, he already decided not to ask about that. For two brief seconds of intense thinking that he could feel his brain working behind his skull, Art finally nodded and, again, cursed himself for that automated outcome of his thought process. “Okay,” he said, as quickly as he could. “But only if we get to meet in Paris. I like Paris.”

“Sure. And, listen, about Kathy…”

“Who’s Ka— Oh.”

“Yeah. Can she come?” Paul paused for a second, but didn’t wait for Art to answer. “No. How about I see you in Paris, then we go to England together, and we can go back to Europe with her later? That would be fun.”

“Great. I’ll get enough money for that.”

“Cool. I’ll write the rest in my reply letter. Can’t wait to see you.”

Art opened his mouth and realised that he left it ajar, and that his face was hot but the rest of his body was cold. _Can't wait to see you._ He should reply to that. He should tell Paul that he couldn't wait to see him, too. Or other things. Like 'I love you'. Maybe not. No, Art should _not_ say _that._ But that he wanted to see Paul, he could say that. But Paul wanted to see him—was that true? Did that mean anything more than that Paul wanted to hang out with him again? Art felt like a cheap soap opera. But he couldn't help it. His head was filled with Paul, the voice and every single word from that brief conversation echoed inside his head, amplified by his stupid brain under his stupid hair. Art tried to make a sound again. His mouth felt dry and his heart was pounding so strongly, that he couldn’t hear the sound of disconnected line in his ear.

***

Paul put down the phone before he could say ‘I miss you’. He told himself that he couldn’t afford 3 more seconds. He further argued that he’s probably saving it for when they actually met, or that he didn’t want Art to feel sad when he heard it because they couldn't do anything faster to soothe that feeling that they both knew they both felt.

Paul looked at the phone with a disgusted look on his face. He didn’t like it when he knew the truth. That he simply wasn’t letting himself to admit that he, in fact, did miss Art. 

So he quickly found himself a little corner to work on his letter to Art. The date, the time, the place; he’s just gonna decide everything so all Art had to do was to say OK and to show up. That’s what Art usually did anyway. But what should he write? How should he write it? He’s running out of steam to make yet another happy letter. _Oh, Kathy’s so perfect, I think this could be IT—you know, capital I, capital T._ He’d need more strength to do that. Feigning happiness was tiresome. And it made him feel so alone. As if he’s not lonesome enough in this strange country. If only Artie could be more careful at reading his letters, or if he could articulate it better… But what more can he write to convince Art that this place was worth coming to? The scene, the people, the support system, the wealth of culture—he’d written all. Or maybe he’s just insane to expect that Art would just drop everything and follow him to where he was? He should’ve known better. Art, in spite of his proclivity for the dramatics, was always the realistic one. No, he’s not gonna just leave his job and his study for Paul, in spite of…

Of what?

Shut up. Art didn’t love him. It was just a feeling. People have feelings all the time. Good ones, bad ones. Paul would saw his own leg off for Art, but surely a lot of people had felt that for their… their _friends._ Sure, there’s that—those—time— _times—_ when they did… _things…_ that couldn’t exactly fall on friendly category… But people slip and fell all the time, it’s not that weird.

_Is this falling?_

Paul clenched his fist, crunching the letter paper in his hand. He let out a quivering breath and quickly tried to straighten the paper back. It couldn’t be it. He’s in love with Kathy, and it felt real. He’s bursting with affection for her, filled with thoughts of her that circulated throughout his body like blood and got words out of him like air. It was too much like magic to not get the acknowledgement it deserved. No, Paul’s in love with Kathy. Can people fall when they’re already on the ground? Surely they can’t.

But Art… Can’t he always be an exception to laws of men? He could do the impossible— _he’s_ an impossibility. It’s impossible for men to sing like that, and there he was, borrowing the voice of an angel. Or maybe Paul’s always been standing over a bottomless pit all this time, and this was only a ground his hands managed to grab before he resumed the fall.

Oh, if only Art would just tell him that he _did_ love Paul, things would’ve been at least a little less confusing—there’s gonna be _one_ surety he could hold on to, at least. If only he’d tell Paul that he _did_ go to the airport in spite of everything, to see him one last time, because he loved Paul, or something like that… Why didn’t he reply to that one postcard? Paul put every ounce of his courage to write what could be the stupidest thing he’d ever sent—an announcement of hope, of sort—and the least Art could do was to reply, even if it’s just to say no. He didn’t dare to write his name, sure, but Artie should’ve known. If he loved Paul, he should’ve known.

Stop it. Stop this. Art was not in love with Paul, and Paul was _not_ falling in love with his (former) best friend.

But he was afraid. Probably he was afraid that he _was_ falling in love with Art—with a man, and all that dilemma. Probably he was afraid that it was his best friend, and was probably the only friend he’d ever had (aside from Eddie), and he might lose that, and other similar worries.

And, again, Paul hated that he knew the truth. That it didn’t matter whether he loved Art or not, or whether Art loved him or not. What he was afraid of was to lose him—to lose Art. To lose Art was to wake up to the world of silence, and his body, having been robbed off music, would be bleak and numbed and dried, barely alive, or moving without the desire to be alive at all. His brain would be dumbed and his fingers would stop making words. His fingers—oh, those fingers—they were meant to write songs for that mouth to sing—whether they wrote about Kathy or any other girl from any other country in any other world, those songs were meant to be sung only by him.

Paul controlled Art’s mouth. That was mostly true. _Artie, let me do the talking. Artie, you sing this part, I sing that._ Since they were, what, 12? It would be nice if it’d always be true. He promise he wouldn’t abuse that power. He’d be kind. He’d give that mouth a little kiss every time it’s done what it’s supposed to do.

Paul looked at his hands and wondered whether it’d be very effective to punch himself right now. It didn’t seem so. So he folded them on the table in front of him, pressed his face to it, and sobbed.


	4. Between the Bars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art met Paul in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art being stupidly happy only :^)
> 
> They're supposed to have a meeting-in-Paris episode in Paul's English era, eh? Here's an incorrect version of it. Except for the fact that they're in love (COUGH) (OBVIOUSLY) (COUGH) and that they're stupid (not coughing) (obviously) (not coughing).
> 
> The title was Elliott Smith's Between the Bars :^)

“Sandy, I’m going away.”

Sandy cringed and thought about changing his phone number. But then again, it was Art. He should’ve anticipated this. So, in his infinite wisdom, Sandy merely sighed and said, “Arthur, you _don’t_ have to report all of your activities to me. You can just _do_ it. You’re an adult, and I’m not your mother.”

Art pouted. “I know that,” he whined. Art heard himself whining and he hated it. There’s no taking that back, though, so Art just laughed at himself. “Whatever. I’m just calling you to let you know I'm going away, so I’m not gonna call you for a whi… Shut up! I know I don’t have to call you! I’m not gonna send you a postcard! I’m just kidding, I will.”

Sandy chuckled softly. “Alright, I’ll look for that,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“Paris.”

***

The sky was never clearer.

That’s what Art thought the moment he landed in Paris, a bag on his shoulder and a hand over his eyes. The sun was so bright, it’s almost blinding. What would Paul say had he been here? That the sky echoed their happiness? No, Paul would groan loudly and complain about how Art’s hair reflected the ray, then he’d threaten to shave Art’s head in his sleep. Good old Paul. He’d been saying that since he’s 12.

Art quickly manoeuvred his way through the city. He checked the address again, then the map, to make sure that he’s heading to the right hotel. Hotel. Art was half convinced that Paul would’ve invited him to camp under the bridge. But who was he to refuse _just_ a little bit of luxury? The hotel was dingy and fishy, but it’s a private room, with a place to lay his head that could almost qualify as bed. In Art's doubtful head, it's almost a surety that Paul spent every penny to get a private room to do something _very_ private. But could he really be sure? Maybe Paul just had more money than he let on. Maybe Paul's just pampering him because... because of whatever reason he had. Who knows?

Art dropped his belongings and went away again to fetch his rented motorbike. He turned here and there and busied himself, in spite of his travel-weariness, to distract his mind off the thought of seeing Paul. He sat on an outdoor seat of a cafe and squirmed as he waited for the world to turn. _Paul would be taking a bus to the train station now,_ he thought. Then: _Paul would be at the train station now. Paul would be on the train now. Paul might be sleeping on the train now. Paul might be bothering people by continuous strumming of his guitar on the train now._

When the clock hit the appropriate time and Art had double-checked the route, he drove, with a half-eaten pastry in his pocket, to the train station.

***

Not that guy. Not that guy. Definitely not that lady with the pretty sunhat. That’s a dog. That’s a child.

That’s Paul. Unchanging T-shirt and jeans, with a bag in his hand and a guitar case behind his back. His strides were sure and unstopping—he probably had spotted Art since before his train stopped, Art being not necessarily difficult to spot. Art grinned. Probably too wide to be cool, but he’s used to being a fool anyway. So he didn’t stop grinning. He did stop himself from jumping up and down like an idiot, though. Art had pride. A little bit of it, at least.

Paul, anyway, knew that Art was trying not to act as if he had trampolines on the soles of his shoes. So he, too, broke a wide, foolish grin on his face, quietly laughing at Art and at how familiar his thoughts were. Then Paul dropped his bag, and jumped to hug Art until the latter tumbled backwards and nearly fell. That only made Paul laugh louder.

“Fuck, I miss you!” he yelled. Art blinked and giggled in reply because he couldn’t make intelligible words. He didn’t even know that Paul was silently congratulating himself for finally finding the courage to confess to the fact that he, really, missed Art. And now that it’s out into the world, and with Art in his arms, it felt like both a burden and a relief: He’s not supposed to feel this for Art, but, heck, Art’s here.

“So,” he let go of the long embrace and picked up his deserted bag. Paul opened his mouth, then frowned and changed the course of the conversation. “What the fuck’s in your pocket? I heard a crunch when I crashed into you.”

“Oh!” Art’s face fell a little. “My croissant. Damn it. I was saving it in case I got hungry tonight. You know, I _really_ don’t have enough money to get my leftover lunch flattened and crushed. _Please_ think of alternative greetings for the future.”

Paul laughed. “Alright, shut up. Come on, I’ll feed you.”

And with that, they tottered away from the platform. And Art, forgetting that he's the one who knew where the motorbike was parked, let himself be led by Paul around the train station.

***

“Don’t bite.”

“Well, don’t put it in my mouth!”

This was _not_ what Art had in mind when Paul said he’d feed him. He thought he’d be brought to the see Paris at night and they’d dine over cheap street food until they ran out of their travelling money, but, no, Paul just brought him to see the inside of his underpants, and that’s all there was to dine with. But Paul had laughed at that reply, and Art couldn’t help but smiling, too. It’s pretty Paul, of course, to be this selfish and ignorant, but he never did it out of spite. _On the bright side_ , Art thought, _it meant that Paul had been thinking about this on the way over_. 

Art didn’t know, of course, that Paul really had been thinking about this since he got on that plane to England, the one he nearly missed (the one, according to Art, he shouldn't have caught at all). How could he? Paul never said anything. Paul never hinted in his letters that he wanted to do this with Artie, so for all he knew, that night after his graduation was the end of their misadventures. That Paul had figured things out and Art was not a part of the answer.

So, in a way, choking on his best friend’s dick was a relief.

“Alright, _now_ we can get you fed for real.” Paul’s voice rang again. Art wiped his lips with the back of his hand and smiled. His smiles were coy, Artie. He always looked as if his mother just embarrassed him by boasting about his accomplishments in front of a random passenger on a bus. _My little Art got an A+ in math._ Yeah, everyone knew that already, Mrs. Garf.

Art looked up, at Paul, and let his eyes linger for a while, wordless. Paul didn’t say anything either. Not about eating, or going out, or anything. It’s a queer circumstance that they're in, and they’re trapped in a queer silence it brought with it. Conversations dangled around them screaming not to be ignored, and still they ignored it because nothing else felt important anymore. For Artie, it wasn’t love, sure, but it’s a possibility—that Paul, even with a tale of a lover, still wanted Art, close enough to the way Art wanted him in. For Paul, it’s just it. It’s just Artie. And what that meant or could mean didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that it’s Art, kneeling in front of him, looking at him, panting for him, here with him.

Paul dropped his jeans but pulled his boxers back up, then he joined Art on the floor and kissed him. It wasn’t _,_ Art thought again, like their first kiss, but also not unlike it. It wasn’t their first, for one, but still there’s fear shrouding the contact. Paul’s hand felt a little shaky behind his neck, and Art didn’t have to wonder to know what’s going in his head. They’re kissing. And there’s no grief and shock that pushed Paul into doing it. Paul kissed Art simply because it's _the_ thing to do; the thing he felt natural to do; the thing, even, that he felt he wanted to do.

Art could feel his croissant being crushed again when he pulled Paul into a tight hug. But for a while, he lost himself in the sound of Paul’s hard breathing. The swirling of the air was to him like a quiet lullaby. Art closed his eyes and leaned his head against Paul’s, noticing the subtle slowing of their heartbeats.

“I miss you,” he said—confessed.

Paul’s hands squeezed him. “Good to know.”

“Paul,” Art said again, “did you hear me at the airport?”

Paul pushed him gently so Art looked up to see him frowning. “So you _did_ come.” He laughed and kissed Art on the forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re coming?”

“I didn’t know whether you’d want me to,” Art mumbled. He took Paul’s lip for a planting of a little kiss. “So _you_ sent me that postcard. I wasn’t sure.”

Paul laughed again. Art didn’t know it was from him— _that’s_ why he never replied. So insecure, Artie. So insecure and unsure, except for the fear that he was wrong. He could never be wrong. Paul would bend the world to right his every word.

Paul pulled Artie onto his chest and he pressed a palm to his mouth, took a deep breath and pushed words back into himself.

He said it, almost.

They did go out to venture the Parisian streets at night, to sample foods with what little money they had with them. They stared into the reflection of midsummer moon on the night-tinted river, sang their most beloved songs and got enough money to get so drunk, then got themselves so drunk, it’s a wonder they could still stand up. They giggled into the night with bottles in their hands, forgetting everything, pushing and shoving and hiccupping and, when it's late enough and quiet enough and empty enough, kissing with the stars bursting in their heads, getting themselves dumb and numb and blinded by the loudness of their cheering thoughts.

Art yelped and threw his hands in the air, doing his crazy-drunk Artie bit as he ran towards the spooky alley between the bars. Paul, in his waning conscience, smiled and studied the blubbering mess that was his best friend, stumbling onto bins and screeching at stray cats. From time to time, even through the shroud of his intoxication, Art would turn and catch Paul with his eyes. And Paul's smile would fade and he would notice how Art had been waiting to be caught.

But Paul couldn’t catch him. Paul’s falling with him.


	5. Red Rubber Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artie didn't wanna meet Kathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. I'M ALIVE.  
> BUSY.  
> CANNOT LIVE.  
> BYE.
> 
> (oh, and, the cyrckle's red rubber ball, which we all know was written by paul simon) (and we all know the muse behind this song)

Kathy seemed alright.

He tried to think that, at least. _Oh, Kathy’s definitely gonna be alright. From what Paul had been saying, she’s supposed to be quite sweet, quite pretty, and… quiet. Paul-sized, of course._ It’s a little fishy, Art decided, that Kathy looked _nothing_ like him; as if Paul had deliberately chosen the one that would remind him the least of Art. Not like he’s supposed to be the model of Paul’s type, perhaps… Does Paul _have_ type? _Everyone_ has type. Art tried to think of what _his_ type was, but he only came up with Paul, Paul, Paul. Not even _like_ Paul, just… Paul. Period. Stupid Artie.

So, Kathy’s supposed to be alright and seeing her would definitely be alright. But instead of saying, “Alright,” to Paul’s “let me introduce you to my girlfriend”, Art did Art. He said no, in his whining voice that would draw a round of giggle out of Sandy had it been said in front of him. Because Paul seemed happy. Not confused at all. He seemed genuinely happy that he’s with Kathy. That wasn’t fun to see. Art was never _that_ gracious to say that all he wanted was for Paul to be happy. No, what he wanted was for Paul to be happy _with him._ Was that fair? It’s not his fault if it wasn’t. So he said it like it was: No.

“What do you _mean_ ‘no’?” Paul had protested, but they both knew that it’s just spoken because it _had_ to be spoken. Paul _had_ to protest to make sure that it’s Art’s fault that they wouldn’t find that much-delayed introduction that summer. But Art didn’t have to threaten to stay in Paris to make a point. In spite of the genuine suggestion and the formal protest, Paul, too, wanted what Art wanted them to be: happy, and together.

And Art wasn’t all that proud to say that he’d let this go just to seem that he’s above jealousy. No, he wanted this to go on for as long as it could. Besides, Paul seemed to be amused to be on the receiving end of that jealousy; that’s just so Paul to enjoy being wanted. So as soon as the formal protest was proposed, they changed their whole travelling plan and moved around Europe for a couple of weeks. Art, as promised, sent postcards to Sandy—one from every city he came, with whatever free postcards he could find in the hotel lobby or information centre. And he’s just increasingly happy with each city, so what began as Parisian ‘Dear Sandy, I am writing to you from…’ became ‘Germany is _great’_ and ended with a doodle of a couple of matchstick figures with smiley faces in front of meticulous sketch of a random Spanish building. “Your Sandy friend will be confused,” Paul commented. But Sandy wouldn’t, Art thought. Sandy would know that he, Art, was happy beyond words with his tiny matchstick partner. (Oh, and, there’s a cool building.)

And now, on the train, sitting in front of each other, Paul stared at Art after another round of “I don’t wanna meet Kathy” and a “Why not?” that both of them knew the answer to. The arguments, as were most of their arguments in the coming years, were happening in silence, with the way they look at each other or at the view or at other people, with the way they drink their coffees and the way they ignored each other, with the way they started conversations with sharp and short remarks, with the way they knocked their fingers on any surface. Art wished he would just cave in. He wished he could just be the first to break the faux anger, to take Paul’s hand in his and tell him that it’s silly to have to pretend even with each other. Because neither of them was mad that Art had been honest about not wanting to meet Kathy, and they both knew it.

But straightforward was never a part of their friendship, so stony silence it was. Still, after a soft humming that eventually joined them in harmony, Paul looked at Art with a little twinkle in his eyes and a little smirk tugging at his lips. So Art wasn’t very scared to be the first to really smile, and they relaxed against their seats.

“If you were a girl,” Paul began one of his games of rhetoric, “what would your name be?”

“Emily.”

“Been thinking about that, eh? Right, so what would you wear _right now,_ in that girly imagination of yours?”

Art laughed. “No!” He shook his head and chuckled a little more. “My Mum had always wanted that for a baby girl. You can actually find some unused bibs with the name ‘Emily’ embroidered on it in my attic.”

Paul nodded mockingly. “Uh-huh. Had been coming up with a cover-up story too, huh? Good for you. Convincing.”

“Oh, shut up,” he replied with a large grin. Paul shoved his jacket against the window so they could hold hands under the pile. Art, being Art, had compared the size of their hands when they were much younger. He wondered if the count had changed, now that they’d grown up. Paul’s hand definitely felt snuggly. It felt bigger. They should take measurements when they arrived. And Art should tell Paul that his girl name would be Pauline. Or Paulette. Or Paula. A lot of girl's names started with Paul, how many started with Art?

“I would have to go back and forth,” Paul said, suddenly. Art managed to not get all jumpy, although he paled slightly in surprise. Paul’s fingers, under the pile of crumpled jacket, squeezed around Art’s sweaty palm. Paul, in Art’s opinion, could’ve put his fingers to better use if they’d just go to that stinky lavatory and lower their underpants just a little bit. But he simply used the other set of fingers to draw Art’s fluttering attention, snapping and waving and, eventually, poking. Paul grinned when Art blinked into focus. “If you insist on not seeing her. I should go back and forth. And before you say anything, I’m not protesting. I’m just telling you that I can’t be with you all the time if that’s the case. I’ll visit Kathy, then I’ll get back to you, then Kathy, then you… You get the picture. Is that okay?”

Art shrugged. The shrugging pulled his hand a little, and he rather frantically snatched Paul’s hand back just in case he thought Art was deliberately pulling away. Art offered a small smile as an added reassurance. “That’s okay.”

It was not, of course, okay. But Art would say anything. Because he’s Art, and Art just wanted all the time when his hand was in Paul’s to be perfect.

So that’s the afternoon as they closed in on London.

***

The first week was a dream. Or at least, it was going back to the way they were, whenever it was exactly. But it’s Paul and Art together again; visiting friend’s house to play and play music and learn music and sing and get high and eat greasy food. Paul introduced Art, very proudly, to everyone he encountered, even when he didn’t actually know the person he’s introducing Art to. “This is my friend, Artie,” “This is Artie,” “Meet my friend, Artie,” “Have you met my friend, Artie?”—as if meeting his friend, Artie, would change anyone’s life. Art would grin and giggle because Paul would grip him on the arm with both his hands, like a child holding on to his favourite toy, every time these introductions took place. That's the closest they had to holding hands in public.

Paul took Art to ride the tube from end to end, trying every route imaginable, breaking their trek to stuff their mouths with whatever food they laid eyes on. They sang in the park, in the stations, on borrowed beds and temporary sofas, in the pubs, on the street, in rented lodgings, under the skies. They smoked. They talked. They wondered. They made songs and they made love. Charming melodies, amused laughter, smell of black coffee and something sweet—it’s all familiar, and Art felt like he’s drowned in happy memories, making happy memories.

Days without Paul, however, felt empty and bleak. Art would make his way to famous places and find himself wondering whether any of that really mattered. The fact was, wherever he went, all he could think about was how he didn’t see that place with Paul, he didn’t try that food with Paul, he was doing this in there without Paul. He looked around and tried to come up with a good answer to the question on the point of being anywhere, doing anything, without the other, shorter, smiley matchstick figure, but all he could see was sullen sky, staring back at him, refusing to give any answer that wasn't a resounding "no point at all, goose". The matchstick figure that was him was frowning now.

“Sandy, I’m not happy,” the postcard went. It’s flimsy and had blurry picture on the other side, and Art only half wanted to send it. Not because it’s ugly, but because he wanted quicker answer. He didn’t want to wait for weeks until Sandy got the postcard, then more weeks until Sandy replied—not like he’s gonna reply. Art wanted to talk to Sandy _now._ He wanted to tell Sandy of "this friend of his" who's leaving him to see someone else, and how unhappy that made him feel. But most of all, he simply wanted to talk to Paul. Every day. All the time. In here and back home.

“Honey, I’m home!” Paul walked into the room, closed the door, and laughed at the announcement he just made. His face was flushed and he looked a little shy and a lot happy, giggling and taking off his damp jacket, as if it was a joke. Probably it was, and Art was just being grumpy. “Always wanted to say that,” he said, with more giggles. Paul hung the jacket on the wall, then dropped himself on the sofa, next to Art, with one arm extended to wrap around Art’s shoulders.

“You’ve never done that with Kathy?” Art asked, rather sulkily, while hiding the postcard he was working on. Paul had just kissed him on the forehead, and he resented how it made him feel so warm inside.

“Nope.” Paul pulled away slightly, his eyebrows frowning analytically. “You’re not in good mood.”

Art shrugged.

Paul shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, God. This is about Kathy, isn’t it? Artie, I _warned_ you. I told you I was going to do this. You said it’s okay.”

“I know what I said. I know what you said,” Art snapped hastily. He sat up and shifted away from Paul. It's difficult, fighting with someone who knew him so much. There was never any chance to reel in; Paul _always_ just knew the core of what had bothered Art. And it made him even more upset, because he'd really enjoy telling Paul what had troubled him so. But, no, Paul had to take _even that_ from him. Damn Paul and his thorough understanding of Art. “But, honestly, Paul, how are you doing this? How could you go to your girlfriend and then come here to see… _me,_ whatever I am? That doesn’t work. That’s not supposed to work.”

Paul folded his arms defensively in front of his chest. “Yeah? And how’s this supposed to work? I should ditch her and get hitched with you, is that how it should be?”

“Why not?!”

“Because!” Paul blurted that like an angry little boy, and Art accepted that single-worded explanation like another angry little boy in the know. Still, Paul elaborated, with his shaking voice that pushed tears out of Art’s eyes. “Because _that_ CAN’T WORK! WE CAN’T DO THAT!”

Art hated words. Adults used so many words, and it always made things worse. When they were kids, they’d wrestle their anger out with fists and headlocks, or they’d avoid each other altogether. But adults—adults used words. They explained why things were bad, and the explaining made bad things hurt even more. And they couldn’t really cry. Because, along with containable violence and silent treatment, that, too, was owned by little children.

So Art quickly wiped out what went out of his eyes. But not quick enough that Paul managed to see, stop, and mutter, “Oh, Artie,” that made Art wanna punch himself. Paul moved to hug him, but Art was Art and Art was stubborn. He jumped out of the sofa, shaking his head, and walked backwards, stumbling a little. Paul weakly slumped in his seat. “Artie, what can I do? This is impossible, and I’m in love with Kathy.”

Paul had said that before. In letters, once or twice in person. It had always felt like a stab in the heart, but this one was the finishing blow. Art staggered back, and this time it wasn’t because he’s tripping on himself. He opened his mouth, and he clenched his fists so tightly that they turned white. Because he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t ask, “Then, what about me?”

So instead, he opened his trembling lips and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Paul frowned. “Do what?”

“This,” he continued. “Waiting for you. Getting just stolen minutes of your time, being an ornament for you and your pursuits, and whatever…”

“That’s not fair…”

“You know what, Paul? I have my life to live, and I don’t need you. I’m going back and start living them. I was doing fine. I’m doing fine. You’re not… You’re not the only star in the sea, and I can find new ones so easily.”

“Fish. Fish in the sea.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Starfish.”

“It’s… fish. The only fish in the sea. That’s the expression.” Paul quickly raised his hands when he noticed Art’s face was reddening. “You know what? All the same. There are also a lot of starfish in the sea. Go on.”

“The point is,” Art went on, now shaking from embarrassment more than anger, “you don’t care about me, and this ends now. I’ve bought my tickets and I’m going home.”

He could see Paul’s opening his mouth to reply, but Art decided that it’s for the best effect if he removed himself from the scene now. So he turned on his heels and took off, to the bedroom where he turned off all the lights and sulked under the blanket, where he eventually cried himself to sleep well into the night.

***

Paul knew too well than to get up and chase Art to the bedroom. So he simply sighed and mulled over the justifiable accusations. It’s still not fair, of course. But it’s not Art’s fault to explode this way. Had it been the other way around, Paul would’ve done much worse. But was there really anything that can be done? Should he break up with one love to pursue another? And why would he do that, if the other's simply _cannot_ be pursued? Wouldn’t it be like throwing everything away for nothing?

Except that nothing was Art.

Paul wasn’t too polite to not read what Art had written on the postcard to Sandy, and what he found there wasn’t all too happy. No one in a summer vacation should write “I’m not happy” and not mean it as a joke. And to write _that_ when on vacation with someone they’re together with (in any way) _kinda_ meant that it’s the end of that togetherness. And Paul didn’t want that.

Why should Artie be like this? Why should he kiss Paul on that bathroom floor, then cried when Paul told him the fact that they simply couldn’t happen? _Then made it happen anyway?_

What would life be like, Paul contemplated, if Artie never kissed him that night? If he simply accepted Paul’s sincere compliment with a thank you and an uneasy giggle, would they simply spend that night eating pizza and sweets with cups and cups of orange soda that would get them to run back and forth to the bathroom? Would they go on being friends, go to prom together with their respective dates after having prepared for the big night, and trade stories of how the _later-that-night_ went? Or, they’d probably sing for the prom instead. Would they study together for the last of their exams? Would Artie help him study so they’d go to the same college? Would they ever drift apart?

The thought of them drifting apart—in this case, _again—_ felt so unbearable that Paul suddenly felt heavy and disturbed. He decided to leave and went out to get fresh air, then to buy coffee, then dinner, and he thought of what he felt about Art’s closeness with this Sandy friend who actually did go to college with Art and became kinda closer than comfortable, in Paul's opinion (at least). Oh, God. What if what happened with him and Art _also_ happened with Sandy and Art? That’s just so Art to wreck totally normal friendship with wrongly-timed kisses. Stupid Art. Stupid Art and his Columbia classes.

Paul returned and stored the dinner he bought for the two of them to cool over the dining table. He snuck into the bedroom to find Art's still under the blanket with his eyes closed and tracks of dried tears were subtle stripes on his face. Paul sat down as quietly as he could and ran his hand over Art’s hair.

 _Why should Art be like this?_ he wondered. Art was more beautiful than anything he’d ever laid eyes on; so delicate and so intricate, like a painting or a sculpture—Art was really living his name. He only made beautiful things. Even his anger sounded like a song. He’s so beautiful, it made Paul cry.

Art opened his eyes when he felt a pair of lips pressing on his head. He felt the familiar warmth again and even in his half-asleep, he recognised the only person who could give him this feeling of being home. Art let himself be wrapped in Paul’s arm, and he stayed very still when Paul buried that face in his neck.

“I care,” he said, his voice tender but sure. Paul's breath was hot on his skin. “I care about you.”

Paul pulled Art closer against him, and this time, Art squeezed back, encouraging those arms to envelop their little world in the still of the night. He listened to the sound of Paul’s ragged breathing, so warm and so full of silent words that's conveying a universe of feelings beyond language. Paul’s heart was beating so loudly, Art could feel its vibration running down his spine, as if it was his own. Art counted, taking one beat for a second, turning Paul into the definition of time. He felt rustling of his hair, then Paul’s lips again, softly kissing his temple.

“I’m going home with you.”


	6. All the Times You Prayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am leaving, I am leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I messed up the timeline but, eh ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Title is from 'All the Times You Prayed' by The Staves.
> 
> IT'S ALMOST PAUL'S BIRTHDAY GUYS WHAT SHOULD WE DO OH I KNOW WE SHOULD SEND HIM ARTIE  
> p.s. paul, i mean sir, call him.

“Artie, I’m not happy.”

This was the time of day that Art began to wonder at which point of his life did he start to be called ‘Art’. His name was Arthur. His father called him Arthur. His mother called him 'darling'. Paul called him Artie, although Paul should’ve called him 'darling'. Now that he thought of it, it’s almost definitely that his mother was the first to call him ‘Art’. Art Tatum. Art Tatum was blind. His best friend Sandy was going blind. He should probably answer to Paul.

“That’s funny,” the answer went, and Art grinned because it _was_ funny for him. “It’s usually me, saying that, to my friend Sandy. You remember Sandy.”

“Sure, I remember Sandy. Freakishly tall, freakishly smart, freakishly nice… Hey, now that we’re talking about Sandy, you’re _not,_ you know, doing, you know, _that,_ with him, are you? If you are, I'm thinking about making a survey. Art's Friends: Are You Ever _Only_ Friend? Are You _Sure?_ ”

“No, Sandy has a girlfriend.” Art tried to look less amused than he really was, but he wasn’t really the best at calming down and Paul was way too good at recognising Art’s facial cues. Paul scoffed and folded his arms, then leaned back against the passenger’s seat, sulking. Art pursed his lips to give his mental faculty a physical cue that he should tone his happiness down since Paul, as he said, wasn’t happy. It’s an unwritten rule that when Paul’s not happy, _no one_ should look like they’re having a good time. Art cleared his throat and asked, “Alright, why are you not happy?”

“I hate school.”

“Great, we’re in 8th grade again. Is it that jerk Richard Sutherland again? I keep telling you, stop showing him up. I'm not gonna be involved in another revenge trip that's gonna go awry.”

Paul laughed. He unravelled his folded arms and sat up straighter. “First of all, I wasn’t showing him up—it’s called being _good at sports,_ not like you’d know anything about it. Second of all, _you_ hated school so you’d know about it. What do I do? I _hate_ law school.”

Art looked at him with a frown. The dead trees behind Paul seemed to be darkening, which meant it’s about to get much colder and they had to stop loitering and go home instead. Besides, they’d been in Art’s car since noon, and they were about to miss dinner. If Paul wanted long conversation, wouldn’t it be nicer to do so in a diner or something? They’d be warm and full. And less miserable. Hungry Paul was a miserable Paul.

“Paul,” Art said patiently, having decided not to ask Paul to have dinner until he finished one advice, “ _no one_ knew you were gonna enrol to the law school. No one expected you’d do that. _You_ did this to yourself. Why did you even do that anyway?”

Paul leaned his elbow on the dashboard, then his head on that arm. “I wanted to,” he began, then he stopped and let the answer dangle like an unfinished tapestry on the wall. Paul closed his eyes and sighed heavily, and nothing further was elaborated afterwards. So Art offered to get dinner. Paul agreed because he wanted to drop the conversation, so Art drove them to the old trusty diner that sold nothing good but had decent milkshake, and that's the end of it. Art never really knew what Paul wanted. He just assumed that Paul was saying that he wanted to go to law school. Except he didn't, so it made no sense.

Art accepted the nonsense.

***

Art should’ve known already. That’s what Paul thought. It’s not a big secret. Art _knew_ Paul came back so they could be together again—he _said_ that. Or was that conversation forgotten already? Art was probably just underestimating Paul’s feelings for him. He probably thought that for Paul, those heavy moments were just that: a moment, nothing continuous; an impulse. Paul could easily calm Art’s paranoia by saying, ‘I came to be with you, idiot’, or ‘Because I love you, idiot’, but Paul wouldn’t. He wouldn't, ever.

“What can I do to make you happy?” Art asked, on their way.

Paul snorted. “Be an idiot. You already are, so might as well put that as a part of the game plan.”

What he meant to say was, ‘Your mere existence is enough’. But Paul had a brain that twisted emotive words into subdued versions of themselves, and mouth that turned them all into insults. And Art would pout and keep quiet until he’s over it. It usually took 2 minutes. Sometimes more. Paul watched as Art nibbled on his greasy burger. The fat melted and soaked through the gaps between his fingers. Paul reached out and dabbed them with napkins. Paul did that as an excuse to hold Art's hand. Art thought Paul was only disgusted at the mess.

Some people had no idea, some will never explain.

When did communication with Artie get this difficult? Between always and never. Art always assumed the worse even though he knew the truth because he didn’t wanna keep his hopes up. Paul would never give Art the satisfaction of knowing, even though he knew that Art knew and him not saying a word would do no good. Art’s a pessimist. Paul’s stubborn. They’d always been like that. Even right now, they’re that. Paul wanted Art to just take the leap of faith. Art never believed in Paul.

“Artie,” he said, after a while. Paul poked at his straw and nodded thoughtfully. “I think I’m just gonna drop out.”

Art almost spat his soda. He glared at Paul. “You can’t do that!”

Paul laughed because flustered Art was the best sort of Art. “Yeah, sweetheart, I can do anything I want.”

Art frowned and clenched his fists. He looked down at the water condensation that’s pooling near his emptied plate. He liked the sides, not much for the burger. He could feel heat creeping up his face, possibly turning them pink. Then he cleared his throat. “Say that again, but this time try using ‘darling’.”

“What?”

“Instead of ‘sweetheart’.”

Paul looked at him like he’s crazy. A grin began to slowly form on Art’s face. He let out a single chuckle. “Just try it.”

Paul giggled, shaking his head. He grabbed his tall glass and leaned against the window, saying, “You’re an idiot,” whilst still laughing at Art. And that's probably the closest to 'darling' that he could ever get from Paul.

Paul’s returning to England, he said. He’s gonna leave the school and go back to England to resume his life. Art ordered a pickle just to have something to stab because he didn’t like this development. He didn’t think that Paul had never ended things with Kathy. He simply thought that her not knowing that Paul was returning to the States, and that Paul, in fact, _returned_ to the States, as a sign that she’s out of the picture. That this was it; Paul and Art together in one country, seeing each other when it’s possible.

So Paul’s choosing Kathy; that seemed to be it. But Paul didn’t say that. He only said that Art should visit again, as if England’s just three blocks away. He said if Art’s coming to visit, he’d drop everything to see him. What’s that supposed to mean? Art would never ask, Paul would never answer.

“Your eyes aren’t blue,” Paul suddenly said, in the middle of it all. Art blinked in surprise. Paul narrowed his eyes and leaned close to confirm his hypothesis. “It’s also kinda green.”

Art pulled away awkwardly. “Yeah, maybe. Yeah. It’s a usual colour for human eyes. You just noticed that now?”

Paul shrugged. “I just automatically assume your eyes are blue. You have that look.”

“Of having blue eyes?”

Paul laughed. “I can’t explain. You just do. Shut up.”

Paul’s remembering him, thought Art. It’s a sad thought, and it’s a sweet thought. Paul wanted to remember him correctly; that’s sweet. But to remember him, Paul had to be away from him; that’s sad. Art would’ve burst out crying if it weren’t for a scrap of pride he had left in him.

After some time of idly poking into their emptied glasses, mostly to let Art process the conversation, Paul paid for the dinner and they went out to take a stroll through the evening, leaving Art's car behind. Paul had decided that it's best if Art would just turn back and make his way home as soon as possible, while he took a train by himself. Art agreed because he probably wanted some time alone to cry this out. It's quite a fitting night to do anything; the air was cold but the atmosphere wasn't too mellow, neither cheery nor particularly gloomy. The leaves were falling so there was a distraction, and the wind was occasionally strong so their voices would sometimes get drowned; perfect to convey things they didn't want public to pay attention to. Like a confession. Or a wild cry. Paul stepped on dried leaves aggressively every time he encountered one; jumping from one to the next like a little kid with self-assigned mission. Art laughed, but it faded quickly. He couldn’t hold his smile much longer, either.

“So, it didn’t work, then?”

Paul stopped jumping. He turned around and raised his eyebrows at Art, as if asking ‘ _what_ didn’t?’, and still, this, too, he refused to say. Art heard the question anyway. He answered, “Us. It didn’t work?”

“Oh.” Paul shrugged, then he looked down, crushed a brown leaf with his shoe, and began his jumping game again. “I never work for this,” he said, a little loudly as he began to drift away from Art. “I just live it.”

“Anyway.” Paul made a few more jumps, then he turned and walked back to Art. He handed Art an envelope—or, rather, shoved it to Art. “That should be enough for one return ticket.”

Art lifted an eyebrow. “How much money do you have?”

“Eh, I’ve been saving money to pay for the next term. Apparently, that’s not gonna happen, so.” He laughed again at Art’s wincing face—Art never did like the idea of any interruption on education, even when it’s not his own. Paul patted Art on the chest. “It’s actually pretty awful to live through this alone. Come live it with me sometimes.”

Art smiled. “I,”—it’s on the tip of his tongue—“think I’ll wait until you’re back instead.”

Paul returned the smile. “What if I never come back?”

Art shrugged. “I’ll still wait for you.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Paul tilted his head and gave Art a little squeeze on the arm. “I’ll sing for you in the pubs.”

Art laughed. “That’s _also_ nice. Good job, Paul. I wouldn’t be able to hear that, though.”

And Paul looked at him, then smiled again, so fondly, so gently, so knowingly. Then he nodded, almost invisibly, and said, “Yes, you would.”

They shared another look, and shared that old familiar silence. They knew why their silence was so loud; it’s filled with words they almost said to one another. Like an answer, or a shared thought. Or a confession, or an emotion. An instruction, or a conviction. A plea, a call, a prayer. _Paul, don’t do that. Artie, let’s do it now. Paul, stop kicking me under the table. Artie, if you don’t stop eating my chips, I’m gonna murder you. Paul, that’s the wrong melody. Artie, I can’t do this math problem._

_Paul, I love you._

_Artie, I love you._

Paul cleared his throat and he looked down to his shifting shoes. “Well,” he said.

Art closed his eyes and shook his head gently. “Don’t say it.”

So Paul looked up again, to find Art’s eyes that were apparently not really that blue, and shrugged. They smiled at each other.

_Goodbye._

Then they turned around and walked away.


End file.
